


Have Faith Or Pandemonium

by nagia



Series: Have Faith Or Pandemonium [2]
Category: Dark Knight Rises (2012)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-15
Updated: 2012-09-01
Packaged: 2017-11-12 04:40:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/486797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagia/pseuds/nagia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Batman fell.  The Red Hood rises.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Blake checks his gear before he assembles the suit and fastens each clasp. Then he checks it a second time. He checks it a third time before he leaves the cave — on the 'pod, not in the tumbler or the Bat — and finds not a strap out of place, not a buckle loosened, the flashbangs and smokebombs right where he left them. The bat-shaped shuriken are in their compartment. A gadget to shut down lights and cameras is within easy reach.

Strange, to take only the utility belt and whatever armor will fit — lower greaves, gloves, part of the breastplate — and leave behind what won't. But the Batman is a symbol, and he wears that symbol on his chest and on the back of the red motorcycle helmet. He doesn't need the cowl or the cape or the silhouette. Not really.

* * *

He doesn't need the cowl or the cape or the silhouette. Not really. The helmet was _supposed_ to let him focus less on protecting his head and more on offensive maneuvers. And with thugs, it works.

This short, slim, slip of a woman is not a thug. She's well trained enough to slap the heel of her palm into the lower edge of his helmet. Then she whirls and strikes the visor with her armored elbow. The spin gives her momentum, packs more force behind her tiny punch.

The visor shatters.

* * *

The visor shatters. They stand frozen for a second; she peers into the visor, at his eyes, then backs up a step.

"Not Batman," she says, voice hoarse and halting like these are the first two words she's said all day.

"No. I'm... I'm the Red Hood," Blake tells her. As if that makes any sense, as if the motorcycle helmet she essentially _destroyed_ , with her breakable-looking hands, is a hood.

"Not Red Hood," she says.

Now she's just being an ass.

She must see the thought flicker across his face, because she chuckles. Even her laugh is low and raspy, rough and scratchy. Either she almost never talks and definitely never laughs, or she's a seventy-year-old lifelong smoker. Blake isn't about to put money on that last one.

"Not Bat. Not Red Hood. Too busy being you."

* * *

_Too busy being you._

The words circle around and around in his head. Too busy being himself to be the Batman, or to carry on his legacy? What does that even _mean_?

Just psych-out mumbo jumbo, he tells himself as he parks the Batpod. He tosses the useless helmet into the cave's incinerator and strips the metal plates from his skin. The not-a-thug spitfire actually dented the breastplate and broke off one of the spikes on his glove with a cross-wrist block. In addition to the pulverized visor.

Blake applies antiseptic to the various cuts, cleans and then conceals the visible bruises, and stomps up into the former Wayne Manor. Looks like he needs to talk to Lucius Fox.

Lucius Fox is mysteriously busy every time Blake calls. So Blake hurtles through an early patrol, then lights the Bat Signal himself. He stands by it in the shadows for the rest of the night, never announcing himself when Gordon and the new Deputy Commissioner step onto the roof. They shut the signal down; the moment they’re gone, he powers it back up again.

The next morning, he makes sure to politely mention that the Wayne Manor lighting’s been a little spotty. As a fellow Wayne beneficiary and someone who knew the man personally, might Mr. Fox know anything about it?

Once Blake is safely in his office, Fox folds his hands together, steepling his fingers. Fox tilts his head and smiles broadly. "What can I do for you, Mr. Blake?"

"You wouldn't happen to know how the Batman got his hands on Wayne Enterprises prototypes, would you?"

Fox's smile dims from _What are you doing here?_ to _Clever_. "I honestly couldn’t say, Mr. Blake. But I recently found something Mr. Wayne might have wanted you to see."

* * *

Blake follows Fox into a secret passage that leads to a hidden elevator. The elevator whirs its way down through floors and floors of the Wayne Enterprises HQ, finally stopping at an open space that's mostly concrete and cinder block. There's dust all around; someone recently repaired the floor.

The tumblers recovered from Bane's paramilitary coup are here. Fox ignores them and leads Blake directly to a metal case that takes up most of one wall.

Fox looks him over once, then pulls out the second drawer from the top. It reveals a breastplate almost exactly like the one he wore last night. The only difference is the size — slightly smaller; it will fit better than Bruce's armor — and, just faintly, the color. The metal has a tinted sheen to it, visible most in the Bat emblem, which glints a deep red.

"Gloves, shoulder guards, and full greaves. The plates were designed to resist bullets and direct contact, but the gaps between the plates are still vulnerable to knives." Before Blake can say anything else, Fox holds up one hand. "I've also taken the liberty of designing a better helmet."

"Where does all of this come from?"

Fox smiles politely.

Blake decides not to ask that one again. So he changes angles: "Alright, stupid question. What I really want to know is, am I stealing any of this?"

"None of this legally exists. As far as I'm concerned, it's all owned by the Batman," Fox says. He opens a cabinet and withdraws a dark red helmet.

The design is sleeker than the helmet he had to incinerate. Despite that, when he taps a fingernail against the — plastic? Is this plastic, or some other material? — seems thicker. It has a strip of some translucent black material for a visor, but the strip goes all the way around. The strip is wider in the front, seems faintly angular.

It takes Blake a moment to see it. But when he does, he almost has to laugh. "The emblem. The Bat emblem."

"I thought you might appreciate the gesture." Fox smiles again, this time as if sharing a private joke. "The helmet was fabricated from multiple layers of fiberglass and kevlar. It won't stand up to more than one shot at poin-blank range, but it should deflect ricochets and two rounds from smaller caliber firearms." 

"I do. I… this is perfect." Blake etches his thumb across the visor and then asks, "What's the visor made of? Any kind of impact resistance?"

That catches Fox by surprise. "Much lower than the rest of the helmet. I assume there's a reason you're asking?"

"Someone managed to pulverize the visor on my helmet a few nights ago. Bare-handed."

Fox gives him a _Now that, I'd like to see_ sort of look, but he says only, "I'll see what I can come up with."


	2. Chapter 2

Fox gives him a brand new helmet, with a better-reinforced visor. He says he has no idea just where or with whom Wayne trained for close-quarters combat. He's slightly less guarded as he says it. He shakes his head, rueful, and Blake believes him.

Blake drops by what the Wayne Manor computer system refers to as the satellite cave on his way out of town. It doesn't look like a cave at all to him, so he uses the computer system there to rename it the urban armory. There's a sharp, squirming sensation in his stomach when he renames the location — the same thing he felt when he realized he wouldn't use the cape or cowl, the same thing he felt at using the 'pod rather than a tumbler — but he refuses to listen to it.

This is Bruce's legacy, sure. But he's not cheapening it, not failing it, if he does it his own way.

* * *

He runs into the tiny not-a-thug with the smoker's laugh again a few nights later.

This time, she leaves the helmet alone. She seems to think he's her personal punching bag, because she starts by dropping from a fire escape. He narrowly avoids her landing on his back; it's so startling he falls into a cross-body draw. (And comes up empty. That's a habit he's got to unlearn.)

She darts backward in a serviceable, practical roll. Not the flashy somersault he'd expect from someone with a gymnast's build thinking they can take on the Red Hood.

"Don't tell me you're going to stay low to the ground," he says.

"Use gun?" She's even hoarser than she was a few nights ago. Either she hasn't said a word since she last saw him, or she has some kind of URI. 

If it's some communicable respiratory infection, he's glad he's wearing a helmet and gloves. He doesn't want to have to explain 'ninja hobo pneumonia' to Sister Claire. She's scary enough just asking if he's _sure_ he did the 2AM bed check.

"I used to."

They circle each other for a few moments. He moves a little slower than she does, trying to use up as little energy as possible. He's got a long night ahead of him. 

At length, she gives him a firm nod and says, again, "Not Batman." Her voice comes through a little clearer this time.

"No. I'm the Red Hood."

"Not yet."

Tonight, she doesn't laugh at him. Instead, she drops low and swipes out with one leg. He dodges the kick, only to find himself on the receiving end of a vicious elbow jab to the sternum. Even through the armor, it knocks the wind out of him for a second.

She rolls backward again, comes up into a defensive stance that looks familiar. She watches him. He can see her frown through her ski mask.

"I strike, Batman block," says the ninja hobo.

"What?"

"I strike, Batman block. Doesn't think." A pause, and she says, very calmly and not even a little out of breath herself, "Not Batman."

"We've been over this. I'm the Red Hood."

"Not yet," she says again, then charges forward. She changes directions and angle twice, then jabs out with her elbow again.

This time, he intercepts with a forearm, then grabs her by the elbow to turn her momentum sideways, try and push her back. But she slips the grab and half-skids, half-falls to the ground just barely out of his range.

"Better," she says. "When hit, don't break. Don't think. Block."

Then she climbs the fire escape. He considers chasing after her and trying to figure out just who the hell she is and what she thinks she's doing. But he's still got a patrol to finish, and he'd like to make the 4AM bed check.

* * *

The kitchen is a crime against tired people. John looks from one huge industrial stove to another huge industrial sink, to the multiple cooking islands and shiny steel counter tops.

Kind of hilarious, really, to see chipped mugs and battered cookware in a state-of-the-art, five-star-chef kind of kitchen. Or it would be if it wasn't some ridiculous hour and he didn't want to crawl back.

Even apart from the ninja hobo with pneumonia, last night's patrol was absolutely awful. It didn't end until five-thirty, he didn't get back in until six, and he damn near got the shit kicked out of him twice. The ninja hobo has a point about blocking immediately after a hit lands.

He's still staring blearily at the coffee machine — the little timer-clock on which reads _7:04_ — when Sister Claire sidles up behind him and asks, "How do I never see you up and around at bed check?"

He looks blearily up at Sister Claire, who recently retired from a Catholic high school and often wears fuzzy purple and gray argyle sweaters.

"I guess I must be a ninja," he says. It comes after a long pause.

Sister Claire arches an eyebrow, but she fills a thermos full of coffee, black, and hands it to him. Apparently, he's won this round.

* * *

Blake makes his way to Father Reilly's study. It used to be the east wing's music room, but the repo men hauled away the piano. They haven't reappeared with it, so Blake figures it's staying gone. That's fine; Father Reilly has a baby grand's weight in cardboard boxes to replace it. It's only been a month since they all trundled in, and there are still a few boxes that are still taped closed. An entire wall of bookshelves is still empty, and Reilly's old desk and ancient Dell computer take up the corner where the baby grand used to be.

For once, Father Reilly is actually in. He's seated carelessly in his beat-up old chair and looking through the resumès of child psychologists. Apparently they need a therapeutic counselor on-site.

"John. Sister Claire mentioned that she didn't see you during the two o'clock rounds?"

Shit. He hadn't won that one after all. John shrugs, then looks aside, as if sheepish. "Sorry, Father, I slept through. But I don't think my flock were out of bed for anything except a bathroom break."

Father Reilly turns to look at him. The gaze is searching, intense, but there's too much debt piled up between them, and too little of it is John's. It's clear from his expression that all Father Reilly sees is a success story he owes too much.

He shakes his head and sighs. "I know we're all still adjusting after... everything. But you won't be watching the seven year-olds forever, John."

* * *

John stays in that night, makes all his bed checks and sees Father Reilly a few times, but never Sister Claire. This may make him kind of an asshole, but the next morning he asks Sister Claire just where she was last night.

He pours her a cup of coffee while she's quiet. He's won this round.

"I wasn't feeling quite well," she says at last. "Father Reilly had to pick up my rounds. I'd have asked you, but we just seem to keep missing each other at night."

John hands her coffee over and accepts his own mug in trade. There's no winning with this woman, is there?

* * *

Blake waits until Sister Claire and Father Reilly have settled into their rooms, then slips off to the east wing. When Bruce Wayne rebuilt his manor, he eradicated the servant hallways — all but one. Anybody else might think it was an architectural necessity, or maybe part of some fond memory.

Detectives don't believe in coincidences.

He takes the 'pod straight to the usual alley, with the fire escape and two long dumpsters. It seems to be the hobo's favorite place to be. It might even become a tradition: start with the alley, check on the hobo. See if she thinks he's Red Hood yet. What he'll do when she gets the simple concept of 'Red Hood, not the Batman,' he's not actually sure.

He finds her crouching, wedged against one of the dumpsters. No ski mask. She's squeezed her eyes shut. All that metal against her back so early in the spring can't be anything but cold, can't be anything but uncomfortable. For a moment, he's reminded of the way cats hunch down and squint when they're in pain.

But she's a tiny Asian-American hobo. A human being. Not a cat.

She tilts her head to look at him. She doesn't smile. There's no challenge in her eyes, only resigned acceptance.

"Not Bat," she says.

"I know." He stands over her, suddenly aware that he's just one long line of a figure, no cape to distort his movements. "No lesson tonight, huh?"

She only smiles. "No, tired. Go."

"Are you hurt?"

"Tired," she says again.

Blake looks down at her through the mask. "Okay, how about sick? How long have you been on the streets, anyway?"

The hobo shrugs. When she's got her arms folded around her knees and is looking up at him, eyes huge and brown and old in a startlingly pale face, she looks impossibly young. Sixteen, maybe.

"Yeah, you're probably sick and under-fed. Come on, let's get you to a hospital."

"No hospital," she snaps, and her eyes glint with something he doesn't like seeing from a kid. The look isn't just mildly deranged (he deals with deranged all the time), but feral in the purest sense of the word.

Feral in the sense of: it's wild, and even if you take it in and feed it, it will still be wild. And if you frighten it, you'll be _lucky_ if it only runs away and you never see it again.

So Blake holds his hands up and backs away. "Okay, no hospital."


End file.
